Les Feuilles Mortes
by Alessandro Rossini
Summary: WW2 AU. Canadian Infantry Division Lieutenant Matthew Williams never expected to be remembered. French Intelligence Officer Francis Bonnefoy always had a great memory, and would never forget the shy Canadian who had stolen his heart just before the war.
1. Chapter 1

_**Les Feuilles Mortes**__ is a song by Andrea Bocelli, and although it isn't from the WW2 era, it will be incorporated into this fic :-)_

_Pairing : Francis Bonnefoy/Matthew Williams (France/Canada)_

_Summary : WW2 AU. Canadian Infantry Division Lieutenant Matthew Williams never expected to be remembered. French Intelligence Officer Francis Bonnefoy always had a great memory, and would never forget the shy Canadian who had stolen his heart just before the war._

* * *

_Spring, 1937_

_The scent of freshly baked pastries and strong coffee assaulted Matthew's nose the second he stepped into the small Parisian cafe. The sweet, melodic voice of Edith Piaf wafted through the air in waves alongside the delectable aromas, and the all-around busy chatter of daily life was a pleasant hum in the background as he made his way to an empty table. It was easy to disappear in the crowded room, and yet Matthew appreciated the warm, fuzzy ambiance he wouldn't find in his native Canada. The muted voices, the sound of plates dropping somewhere far-off in the kitchen, the sound of vehicles zooming by on the crowded Parisian streets... None of those betrayed the rising fears of the continent, the rising fears and predictions of an upcoming war. The cafe was an escape, a safe haven in the troubled world, and Matthew couldn't be more content sitting in the village cafe, nursing a mug of freshly-brewed coffee. But even the most comforting of sanctuaries could be penetrated by the fear of the outside world. The murmurs around him began to increase in volume, voices steadily rising with every comment, until he could no longer avoid listening to what the people were whispering._

_"...I hear he's becoming obsessed with power..."_

_"...Did you hear about the new ban?"_

_"...This can't lead to any good, I'm telling you..."_

_"...I hate to admit it, but history repeats itself...You don't think it will happen again, do you?"_

_"Un secondé guerre mondial?"_

_"This talk of war is most unsettling, non?"_

_The sound of a delicately accented voice directly addressing him snapped Matthew from his eavesdropping daze with a jump of fright. Hot coffee spilled onto his lap, and yet he could only gape silently at the stranger who had the audacity to sit at his table, without permission. The blond, accented stranger continued to speak, his tapered and gracious fingers absently toying with a ribbon he held in his hands._

_"It is all you hear these days; 'Hitler this, and war that.' Worse than what happening is what the people are doing, spreading the rumours. All this negative talk can do nothing but bad, do you not agree?"_

_"I agree, it's quite true... But who are you? I don't mean to sound rude, and I'm terribly sorry if I do, but you just appeared at my table and scared me a little-" One slender finger effectively silenced Matthew, and a charming, if slightly sheepish, smile was offered. Matthew distantly noticed the stranger had a dimple._

_"You do not sound rude at all, cher. It is my fault; I did not introduce myself properly." You didn't introduce yourself at all, Matthew wanted to correct, but instead he remained silent. Internally ashamed of even thinking the hasty retort, Matthew carefully shook a slender-fingered hand when it was offered to him. Hands so smooth, so perfect..._

_"But it is better late than never, I like to think. I am Francis Bonnefoy, artist extraordinaire, at your service! And what is your name, beau?"_

_Eyes from surrounding tables were drawn to both himself and Francis, and Matthew desperately wanted nothing but to hide beneath the table. In a much softer tone than the one Francis had used, Matthew soundlessly gave his name. When Francis continued to look at him expectantly, he came to the annoying realisation that he had spoken too weakly to be heard._

_"I'm Matthew Williams. I'm not really extraordinary at anything, though...So I'm just Matt."_

_"Mathieu. What a beautiful name, darling, befitting for such a truly beautiful person! And everybody has a talent, dear Mathieu, it just takes time and experimenting to discover it."_

_The kind smile that was given put him at ease, and Matthew offered his own shy smile in return._

_"You seem to have a philosophy for everything, Monsieur Bonnefoy."_

_"Non, non, non- please, call me Francis. I insist. And I do have a philosophy for many things; but art and philosophy are closely linked together, are they not? Everything is linked together in one delicate way or another - art is the visual form of philosophy and poetry, very much in the same way music is the audial form of art."_

_"I never thought of it that way...But it's true. It's quite brilliant, really."_

_"Ah, you flatter me. It makes me happy to hear you do agree with me though, cher. It is rare to find one with such a keen understanding. But tell me, and forgive for being so straightforward- you are not from here, am I correct? Your French is flawless, but yet you do not strike me as a local." Perched daintily on the iron-wrought chair with a look of piqued interest, Francis appeared both entirely at ease and utterly enthralled. Matthew couldn't resist talking to someone who seemed so genuinely captivated._

_"I'm from Canada. I grew up in Montreal and learned French during my summers in Quebec."_

_"And why are you here, little Canadian?"_

_ Matthew found himself becoming strangely accustomed to the terms of endearment and familiarity that he had found odd only moments before: Francis simply seemed to be the type of person to use them without a qualm or second thought. Perhaps he spoke to everyone with them._

_"Because I study cultural anthropology, I qualified for the studying abroad programme at my school. Some of my classmates chose to study in London, but I personally chose to study in France."_

_"And I am glad that you did! It was fate that brought you to Paris, darling, and it is fate that brought me to you!"_

_Matthew's cheeks flushed as hot as the coffee in his mug. "O-Oh...That's a little far-fetched, don't you think? W-We did just meet, after all..." It was also unnervingly forward. How did he seem so sure that he was...?_

_"But how could it be otherwise? We were destined to be together, Mathieu!"_

_"But you don't know anything about me! And what if I'm not...you know. I mean, not that there is anything wrong with that, if you are! You just seem to assume that I am as well!"_

_ With honeyed, soft-looking locks, eyes the shade of melted glaciers, and a strong jaw lined with slight, scruffy stubble, Matthew knew that even without his preferences he would have found Francis an attractive male. And that accent, so lilting and rich...The flush that tinted his cheeks was a giveaway to the train of his thought, if the sly, considerate smile that teased the corners of Francis' lips was anything to go by._

_"Petit, nobody is judging you here. I share in your preferences." Beneath the table, a hand gently caressed Matthew's knee. "And I would never deny someone as charming as yourself."_

_An innocent touch slowly gave way to a more intimate stroke, and Matthew's lids slowly fluttered shut as the hand slipped one inch higher on his knee, then another and another. It was so sinfully wrong, he couldn't possibly indulge..._

_ "Besides. No straight male would get so excited by the simple touch of another man's hand on his own, by a handshake. And no straight male would allow himself to be touched in the way I am touching you."_

_Francis' hands were rubbing patterns onto the flat of his thigh, his fingers skilled in their touch and utterly pleasing, but with that, Matthew bolted. He visibly jumped and trembled in his seat, persistently pushing away Francis' hands, and tearing at the kerchief he kept perpetually in his pocket with bitten-down nails._

_"N-No! You may be right about my inclinations, but I won't go weak at the knees for just anybody, a stranger!" Even when exasperated, Matthew's voice rose no higher than the sound of the average voice. "I may be quiet and a little timid...But I still have my dignity, and how dare you simply come forward to pick on me like that!"_

_"Oh Mathieu, you sweet, beautiful little thing. I had my reasons to think that you are indeed like me before, but now I have no doubts." A hand came to lightly rest upon Matthew's, his touch cool and almost soothing despite his infuriating advances._

_ "I am sorry if I made you feel put on the spot darling, but I just simply had to know whether or not you do share in my preferences. I assure you that although I would never turn down a quickly attained night of passion, it was nothing of the sort this time. This was a bit of a...test, if you will. But I am sincerely sorry."_

_"You could have asked, I would have told the truth..."_

_"Ah, but you could have also told a lie! There is no response more natural than that of the body or of panic, Mathieu. I could have gone about a different way, I suppose, but there is nothing that can be done to change the past, only the future. So in that case, can I see you again?"_

_Francis seemed to have an endless source of unknowing wisdom, always followed by an inquisition of some sort. And although still slightly hurt and befuddled by his 'test,' Matthew couldn't help but nod slowly. "If that's what you'd like, I-I wouldn't mind...And I am a bit sorry for panicking for a moment there. It was your fault, but it's all in the past, eh?"_

_"Oh, I wouldn't say it's my entire fault...but of course it is in the past! And I would like nothing more than to see you again, mon cheri. That way we can change both our futures, yes?"_

_Scribbling down an address onto a napkin with a pen Matthew hadn't noticed was there, Francis lifted his hands in an apologetic gesture._

_"I do wish I could stay here even longer with you,darling, but I have an appointment with a woman who insists I paint her a landscape. The duty of an artist calls me!"_

_Matthew blinked in surprise as an unexpected kiss was dusted onto his cheek by soft lips. "I will see you again sometime, Mathieu! Do stop by whenever you wish! In fact, I demand it, darling. Will you see me tomorrow?"_

_Before Matthew could utter a single word in response, Francis was gone._

_Silently studying the slip of paper handed to him, the small heart drawn in the corner not going by unnoticed, Matthew tried to memorise the address jotted down in a neat scrawl. Francis was entirely absurd, asking a stranger to see him again... _

_But the French were, after all, an eccentric people._

.

_Autumn, 1943_

The night air was colder than Matthew remembered it to be. Winter scarf draped lovingly around his shoulders above his infantry uniform and mittens covering his wounded hands, Matthew bore resemblance to the innocent young man he used to be, despite emanating the authoritative air he had developed after years of bitter fighting.

Those same years of bitter fighting had aged him well beyond what it should have, marking the skin beneath his eyes a tired, bruised shade of plum and placing creases of worry between his brows on his otherwise-youthful face. His hands, once skilful and talented when holding a hockey stick, were ruined by a blast of shrapnel. He was tired of the fighting, he was tired of the constant battles that promised death. He was tired of becoming well-acquainted with another infantry man, only to find his corpse buried beneath the rubble of a destroyed town, and most importantly, he was tired of being scared and alone on the battlefield.

The entrance to the inconspicuously grey building he was seeking went by nearly unnoticed, until one of the men accompanying Matthew cleared his throat and gestured avidly toward the steel door. Matthew cleared his throat and muttered an apology under his breath before making his way toward the steely door and fiddling with the lock.

Opening the door would have been an easier task if his hands were to have remained unscarred from battle, but as it was, clutching the door handle was made difficult by the thick, bloodied gauze wrapped tightly around his appendage. A noise of frustration sounded in the confines of Matthew's throat before it could be helped, and one of his men stepped forward without the requirement of a command to open the door.

Once inside the bleak building, warm air engulfed Matthew's figure and restored the colour to his face, painting the tip of his nose a cheery shade of pink that stood out in stark contrast to the white walls and grimy floors. A solitary woman stood behind the desk in the room. Matthew could make out the distinguishable figure of a Luger tucked into the fold of her black skirt. A thinly drawn brow was raised in question, and her clipped British accent ricocheted off the walls when she spoke in an irritated voice. "What is your business here?"

Despite his months of fighting, Matthew couldn't for the life of him keep the quiver from his tone or make eye contact with the accusing blue gaze. "It's always the darkest before daybreak."

Matthew recited the crucial line with an unwavering gaze, straightening before the woman's acknowledging glare and attempting to look more confident than he felt. "Lieutenant Matthew Williams, 1st Canadian Infantry Division. I'm here with a few members of my regiment to meet with the Fr-"

"Our Intelligence is waiting for you in the first room to the left. Down that hallway."

"O-Oh. Thank you, miss." As they walked past the reception desk, Matthew felt the woman's scowl burning into his shoulders and repressed a flinch. It did not matter how long he had been fighting or how many campaigns he had taken part in, ordinary people made him nervous.

"Lieutenant, it's this way," one of his men whispered, the distinguishable accent of Ottawa prominent in his voice. Matthew's face flooded with embarrassment once he realised he had walked past the indicated room thoughtlessly.

"Of course. Sorry about that."

The new room they entered wasn't any better than the last; it just as austere and miserable as the welcoming room. Cold, unseeing faces stared at the walls and the silence in the room was crushing. Matthew could hear the rustle of his uniform, could hear the sound of his breathing... He hated it. A serious-faced man waited at the head of the oblong table, wordlessly extending a hand for Matthew to shake once within arm's reach.

"Our connection is running a bit late. He shouldn't be long." Ignoring all pleasantries, the stoic male cut straight to the chase and gestured for Matthew and the regiment to take a seat. Matthew nodded curtly but didn't respond.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. Matthew sat silently and stared at the hands in his lap. They were the reason he was in that room, the reason he wasn't stationed in Sicily and fighting alongside his division. Matthew flinched in discomfort as his fingers twitched and pain seared through the rest of his palm. It would be a long while until he could fight in campaigns...Until then, he would have to settle for attaining information from the French.

"Sir, it appears our connection has arrived."

Lifting his head and turning his gaze to the door, Matthew waited expectantly for someone to walk into the room. The connection would be French... The next few moments seemed too coincidental, too precise to be anything less than predictable.

Matthew felt the colour drain from his face as a well-known person walked through the door. "Francis?"

The Frenchman looked up in question before his expression melted into that of confusion. "Mathieu?"

.

Francis was stunned. When Matthew had left four years prior, he was sure it was the last time he would ever see his sweet Canadian. And yet there he was, standing before him in the uniform of his regiment with the same bewildered, charming expression he had seen countless times before. Matthew had grown, he could see that much. He had developed from soft-hearted, cherubic-faced young man of nineteen to a handsome, strapping young lad of twenty three, if he remembered his birthday correctly.

Rounded, pink lips twisted in surprise, and Matthew had never looked more innocent or juvenile than he did right then and there. "Y-You!"

His voice hadn't changed. Still soft, breathy...utterly delectable. It was as endearing as the rest of him. Francis allowed himself the first smile he had delivered in weeks. "Mathieu. It has been a long while."

Matthew looked as though he wanted to cry. But when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly steady. "It's quite the surprise to see you again... But we have business to attend to."

"Indeed." Taking a deep breath, Francis turned to acknowledge the others in the room. "As you all know, this war has been ongoing for several years now. Unfortunately, there seems to be no end to this war any time soon. But we have been making progress.

"In August, two important events happened. The Ploesti fields were bombed by the Americans and Operation Husky was successfully conducted. Both were extremely important, most especially taking over Sicily. That puts us in an advantageous position. Italy was invaded and forced to sign an armistice in September, and word came that the Danes were secretly sending their Jews to Sweden by boat. Earlier this month, we caught wind that the Anti-German resistance in Italy is increasing. There were explosions in Milan: whether our connection to the Italian Resistenza was involved in the staging of this is unknown. All the same, the Italians are helping and doing their best. Most recently we heard that the Germans are preparing for an air raid in Italy; where in Italy, we do not know yet..."

Going over the events of the last few months, Francis realised the situation wasn't all too dire at all. Perhaps there really was a chance for the world.

.

Once the meeting was over, Matthew remained locked in his seat. The men accompanying began to shuffle out of the room, as did the members of the Intelligence, until the room was empty. The only person who remained was Francis- he could hear the fluttery sounds of the other gathering his papers, shifting every so often and pacing... Then all at once the noises stopped.

"I have not seen you in a very long time, Mathieu."

"Four years. Time flies, doesn't it?"

"On silver wings, it is ridiculous."

Francis had quiet footsteps; Matthew could barely hear them when he walked. But he could feel when the other was close enough to touch, could see the faint glow of pale blond hair out of the corner of his eye. If he closed his eyes and breathed slowly, he could detect the faint scent Francis always carried about him, the palest scent of lilacs and rosé wine.

"I had wondered about you," Francis offered as he settled into the seat beside him, long legs stretching out before him and crossing neatly at the ankles, hands settling patiently in his lap. "I had wondered how you were faring after you left."

The close, unnerving lack of distance between himself and Francis in the claustrophobic room was almost obtrusive. It was close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from Francis' skin and close enough for Matthew to smell the soft scent of his cologne, unchanged over the years. Underwhelming yet subduing... The subtle fragrance was enough to bring back nostalgic memories Matthew had thought were buried too deeply to be remembered.

_"But Mathieu, it has been but a year! Surely you can stay just a bit longer?" The distraught, pleading tone Francis used twisted Matthew's stomach in knots. It was the tone Francis used when he wanted to spend the night, or when he had insisted on painting him in the nude. Matthew had never been able to say no._

_But he didn't have a say in how long he would stay; his return to Canada was nonnegotiable. Despite how much it hurt, Matthew tried to offer a forced, watery smile. "I'm guessing you don't have a philosophy for this one, eh?"_

_Francis didn't bother masking his distress. "You can't leave. Please Mathieu, you cannot leave me!"_

_One tear slowly dripped down the curve of Matthew's cheek. And for once, Francis didn't wipe it away for him. "Please don't make this any harder than it needs to be... I have to leave in spring, I don't have a choice!"_

The gradual smile that curved Francis' thin, bitten lips was as familiar to Matthew as the steps of his own home. "So now that I have the opportunity to ask, how have you been, Mathieu? Or is it Lieutenant Williams now?"

"I'm Lieutenant Williams to my squadron... But I can still be Mathieu, for old time's sake." For you.

It had been four years since he had last seen Francis - the brilliant smile he gave should not have been setting off Catherine wheels of excitement in his chest. But it did, and Matthew offered a shy, twitching smile of his own.

"How have you been, Francis?"

"I have been...surviving, as everybody else is trying to do."

"You look well...Do you still paint?"

The warm glow in Francis' eyes dimmed slightly, and his bright smile faded. "Unfortunately, I had to make a few sacrifices. I have not touched a paint brush in years."

"Oh...I'm sorry to hear that."

They fell into a silence Matthew wasn't sure was all too comfortable, until Francis broke it with his low, lilting voice. "It really is good to see you, Mathieu. I've missed you all these years."

"I'm sure you don't mean that," Matthew murmured, ducking his face to hide behind his curtain of golden hair by natural instinct. The pink never failed to make its way to Matthew's cheeks when in Francis' presence, but he did not need to know that.

"Why would you think that? Of course I missed you!" Francis sounded insulted, his refined voice raising and taking on a nearly indignant tone. "I was devastated when you left, I cried over you for months!"

"But Francis... You didn't want to see me on the last day, you didn't ever say goodbye..."

"Oh but cher, I did not say goodbye because bidding you adieu would have hurt too much. I preferred to think you were leaving for a quick errand, that you would come back to me later on that night like you always did. But perhaps that was worse. It set me up for disappointment when you never came back."

Francis' expression fell considerably and Matthew's heart dropped to his stomach. "Francis, I-I'm so sorry. But you knew I only had a year, and we were just friends. I never thought you would actually remember me, or miss me..."

"We were only friends?" Francis hummed hollowly with a lowered gaze, absent-mindedly gazing over Matthew's head and staring at a dirty stain on the otherwise pristine walls. "You play a cruel game, Mathieu. For the longest time I thought we could be more, at least I did before you left."

"Then I'm sorry I had you believing that."

Dejected, Matthew bit his lip to distract himself from the tears rising to the brims of his eyes. There was another brief lapse of silence before Francis' comforting hand was tilting his face up, forcing him to look into eyes that had never lost their beautiful qualities.

"Mathieu, cher, I was not looking to make you cry. It is all in the past, darling, we are past this." Francis' thumb traced the curve of his lower lash line, catching the tears that dampened the lashes there. "Please do not cry over something so old."

"I'm not crying, the tears haven't actually fallen yet," Matthew argued petulantly, gazing self-conscientiously toward the ground, the legs of the table, anywhere that was not Francis' tender face.

An exaggerated sigh met his response. "Oh Mathieu, do you see how stubborn you are? Just as stubborn as the English!"

Matthew picked at his ragged gloves and still refused to meet his gaze. A joke he would have laughed at years before passed by disregarded. "You had so many lovers, so many dates that each time we would meet you had a different woman to tell me about. That's why I never thought you would actually think of me once I was gone... But I'm so sorry to hear I caused you pain, Francis. I feel terrible knowing I upset you."

A sophisticated finger prodded and pushed the corner of his downturned lips skyward. "Please Mathieu, I told you it is in the past. Everything is alright now - you came back, didn't you? Perhaps for different reasons and under different circumstances, but you came back. I am not upset anymore, dear, and you should not be either. Understood?"

Francis was astoundingly commanding, and despite having become used to being the one giving orders, Matthew nodded meekly. "Understood, sir."

Just as unexpectedly as Francis' gaze and tone became stern, it softened. "Good. It is wonderful to have you back, Mathieu."

Matthew instantly recognised the familiar pattern of Francis' touch, the hand on his cheek, the inches separating their face...

_The sunlight that filtered in through the bedroom windows was warm on Matthew's cheeks, but he could only focus on the fingers crawling on his sides, stroking every inch of the flesh bared as he thrashed about on the bedsheets. A foreign, strangled sound escaped him. "Francis, stop!"_

_"But why, Mathieu, it is so clear you are enjoying this!" Francis was laughing, blue eyes crinkled around the corners in glee and grin absolutely radiant. Matthew squirmed beneath his persistent fingertips and arched his back to avoid the talented hands on him, tears leaking out of his half-closed eyes. Oh maple, no... Peals of his laughter resounded in the room. "F-Francis, I surrender! Stop tickling me, p-please!"_

_Francis wore an expression of utter amusement and his hands finally paused just above Matthew's hips. "I never would have thought you to be so ticklish, cher!"_

_"I-I never knew I was," Matthew admitted once he was able to catch his breath, chest rising and falling heavily and breathing ragged. His flushed cheeks reddened even further when Francis gazed at him fondly, twisting his frustratingly errant curl with an elegant finger._

_ One hand gently cupped the curve of Matthew's face and the other brushed away the locks framing his brow. Francis' hands were cool and pleasant on his heated flesh. The blond lowered his face and Matthew's breath caught in his throat. "Mathieu... I like you, mon cheri. I like you so, so much," Francis murmured, the tip of one finger rubbing and tracing over his lower lip. "Do you like me as well?"_

_When Matthew nodded dazedly, Francis closed in the space between their lips and kissed him in the warmest of ways._

Matthew tilted his face slightly to the side just as the other leaned in and Francis just barely missed his mark, grazing his cheek instead of meeting his lips. Francis looked stunned, and Matthew offered a shy, almost apologetic grin. "It'll take a bit more than that, _darling_. It's been four long years."

Francis' eyes sparkled, and he gave a short laugh that was just as charming as Matthew remembered it to be. Everything about him was just as charming as Matthew remembered it to be... "As I said before, you are as stubborn as those Englishmen, darling! I shall wait then, _mon coeur_, as I did before." Matthew found his hand in Francis' grip and the Frenchman pressed a kiss to his bandaged palm, his rough stubble tickling the tips of his fingers in a delightfully tactile manner. "I will see you tomorrow then, first thing in the morning."

Francis left with a coy wink, and Matthew was left watching his retreating figure with a blooming, heated flush spreading over every inch of his body. Hiding the smile that twitched at the corners of his lips, Matthew couldn't help but think that even in the midst of war, some things never changed.

* * *

To Be Continued...

* * *

(YouTube) /watch?v=9xd04H0rDX4

**Les Feuilles Mortes** Lyrics:

C'est une chanson  
Qui nous resemble  
To tu m'aimais  
Et je t'aimais

Nous vivions tous  
Les deux ensemble  
Toi qui m'aimais  
Moi qui t'aimais

Mais la vie sépare  
Ceux qui s'aiment  
Tout doucement  
Sans faire de bruit  
Et la mer efface sure le sable  
Le pas des amants désunis


	2. Chapter 2

The romantic onslaught had developed quickly, had evolved from a sweet peck on the lips goodnight to an ardent kiss and curious, wandering hands.

"Please Francis... _Sil vous plait_..."

Matthew's helpless pleading went unheard as Francis' lips continued to roam at their slow pace over his jawline; then his lips, then his collar. Tears stung the rims of his eyes and clung to his lashes, threatening to spill over. Francis was so teasing with his touches, _so_ teasing, and Matthew felt as though he was drowning in unbearable need for more than just simple pleasing.

"F-Francis...!"

"Why are you in such a rush, darling? We have all the time in the world to enjoy ourselves." As though to prove his point, Francis' fingers traced over his thighs and drew meaningless patterns, stealing a gasp from Matthew's swollen lips.

"I know we have time, b-but..." Francis' amused tone was the final straw and Matthew's tears of frustration finally fell. He had been waiting for so long for Francis' touch and yet the Frenchman was purposely baiting him with fleeting touches that did nothing but further spark him. He was desperate for any bit of contact, reduced to whining, pitiful whimpers, and Francis' elusive touches were doing nothing to relieve him. Those touches were only stringing him along, making him squirm in utter need and desperation. So when Francis leant in to capture his lips heatedly, Matthew didn't think twice before easily submitting, surrendering everything he had to offer to the Frenchman.

It was thrilling, almost shamefully so, but Matthew didn't care, tangling his fingers in Francis' golden locks and moaning softly as he was greedily claimed. He was ravaged, taken and stolen until there was nothing left to give and his lips were delightfully swollen, pink and flushed and bruised from passion.

Francis' astounding patience seemed to finally come to an end as he pushed Matthew into the bed sheets, fingers working deftly to unclasp the buttons and buckles of his infantry uniform. Francis leant forward, pressing their foreheads together and brushing a docile kiss onto the tip of Matthew's nose.

"You are beautiful, Mathieu," he murmured sweetly, fingertips lightly trailing down Matthew's chest. Francis' lips came closer, stopping just beside his ear and licking the shell tantalisingly. "I want you so much..."

It took every fibre of Matthew's being not to moan or let out a pleasured gasp of relief when Francis' fingers finally crept lower and _oh yes_...

"It's time to wake up, sir."

"Eh?"

Matthew awoke in a fluster of confusion and heady lust, sitting up abruptly enough to nearly vomit. He ignored the aching of his nether regions, instead facing his subordinate's wide-eyed gaze with a sick twist in his stomach and heavy flush. Oh maple, it was a dream, and of all dreams to be woken from... Much to Matthew's mortification, it was painfully obvious what type of dream it had been, and despite how he attempted to clench his legs together in humiliation, the evidence was blatantly there.

"T-Thank you, Private. I'll be ready shortly. You're dismissed."

The uniformed officer left with an odd expression, muttering to himself beneath his breath. Red-faced and ashamed, Matthew fell back against his thin pillow and suppressed a low, self-pitying groan. It had been nothing more than a dream, a tortuously thrilling dream... And a pathetic one at that. He hadn't seen Francis in four long years, hadn't caught word of his existence until two days prior, and yet he was the star of the first wet dream Matthew had in several years.

But he couldn't fight the loopy, dreamy smile threatening to break across his lips. As highly unrealistic and illogical as that dream had been, it had also been a deliciously satisfying one, and he had no regrets whatsoever. Every man on base was sure to have such a dream at one point or another, and although he was held to a higher degree than others, he still had carnal desires and needs...

Crawling out of his bunk with that same silly grin on his face, visualising Francis whispering sweet nothings in his ear and undulating tenderly over him, Matthew fumbled with his uniform and prepared for what would be another long day. As much as he would like to lay on his bunk and dream the day away, he had things to do, and he would make certain that images of a blue-eyed, flawlessly French male would not distract him from his work or the mission at hand.

.

The London weather had always been dreary, but on that particular morning, it was ridiculously cold. Not even the layer of uniform and overcoat could protect Matthew from the bitter chill, and the painful chattering of his teeth reminded him of why he preferred spring.

Walking down the dreary lane unescorted, dangerous as it was, Matthew was left alone to the privacy of his thoughts and analysis of London without the accompanying members of his regiment. A lot had changed since his first visit in the winter of '39 when he had enlisted in the ranks, and he was sad to see that the change was not for the better, but for the worse.

The decrepit buildings that lined the streets and the burnt skeletons of bombed buildings served as a sad reminder of the night raids and Blitz two years prior. With a pang of grief, Matthew remembered his horror when he learnt about the cruelty of the Luftwaffe, remembered the indescribable sorrow he had felt when imagining the fear and loss of the Londoners at the time. They still suffered even then, two years later, and Matthew was well-aware of the stiff, tense atmosphere that wouldn't disappear until long after the end of the war.

Walking dejectedly past building after building, Matthew came to a slow halt beside what looked to be an abandoned apartment complex. Brushing his fingertips over the rusted knocker and looking over the chipped red paint, he could only imagine the life of the family that had once lived in that building.

Perhaps it had been a small family, with young children and loving parents. Perhaps the father had to go to war, and they had all been left behind, left to struggle and fend for themselves during the years of hardship. Then came the day they received the fateful telegram that everyone dreaded, the one Matthew feared receiving about his very own brother. Whatever the story of the family was, they shared a common misery with each family that suffered a loss in the war. All was fair in love and war, and Matthew found that the saddest, most confounding part of all was that there was absolutely nothing fair about it.

From somewhere in the distance, a familiar voice called out for him, but Matthew ignored it with a deep frown. Nothing in war was fair. It wasn't fair for people to die, when everything in life was ephemeral to begin with. It wasn't just for people to suffer at the hands of others, or for country to turn on country alike, and it most certainly wasn't fair to be forced into living in fear of strangers and telegrams. It was upsetting and disgusting and incomprehensible and, above all, it was infuriating.

Turning away from the door in sudden frustration, unable to stand looking at it for a second longer, Matthew exhaled angrily... And found himself standing only centimetres away from Francis. The anger flooded from his system as abruptly as it had entered, and Matthew gazed in pure shock at the star of his erotic dream. Where he had come from and when he had arrived was beyond him, but with the Frenchman standing there in front of him, he didn't press for any questions – he simply couldn't, not when images of his dream were flashing through his mind and Francis was watching him with that perfect, confused, flawless expression of his. From where he stood, Matthew could see each handsome detail of his smiling face; the thin crease between his eyebrows, the golden stubble that dusted his jaw, the smooth curve of his slightly chapped lips... It all made Matthew's head spin.

"W-When did you get here?"

"It is customary to say hello before asking questions, Mathieu," Francis chided easily, his eyes lit with amusement. That expression did more to Matthew than it had the right to, bringing colour to his cheeks and setting his heartbeat off to pound erratically in his chest.

A brief image from the dream came to mind and Matthew felt the heat flash through his entire body, flooding into his cheeks and areas less innocent. With a sheepish grin, he apologised. "You're right, of course. Hello, Francis."

"Hello, darling. To answer your earlier question, I arrived just a moment before you turned. What are you doing here? This building is terribly dirty." Spoken in perfect French, Francis made it clear which language he was in the mood for speaking – which suited Matthew just fine; he couldn't imagine a more seductive, beautiful language than that of the language of love, and he couldn't be happier to speak French with someone like Francis.

Offering a weak smile, Matthew shrugged indifferently. "I was just walking around. Then I saw the building and...well, you know how I am. I became sidetracked." Peeking out from beneath his eyelashes, Matthew tilted his head to the side in confusion. "I find it funny that you coincidentally found me here. Would you happen to have been looking for me?"

"Of course I was looking for you, I said we would meet in the morning! I said that two days ago, actually, but did you really forget about me that easily?"

"Of course I didn't..!" Matthew didn't quite catch on to the tease, taking the accusation by literal meaning. Alarmed by the mere suggestion, he laced his fingers between Francis' without a second thought. When the Frenchman's fingers twitched and curled around his firmly, Matthew blushed hotly.

"I-I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking..."

"Do not worry about it, darling. It helps protect against the cold, doesn't it?" Francis winked coyly, and despite the odds, it was comforting.

Reluctantly, Matthew slipped his hand out of Francis' grasp and instantly mourned the loss of warmth and pressure against his palm. "It really does help... But it wouldn't look right, eh?"

Smiling ruefully, Francis nodded. "Probably not. But it will be right someday. I dream of the day when love will not be frowned upon." Sighing sadly, he spread his hands out in a helpless gesture. "There is nothing with can do but wait until that day comes. But perhaps you would like to accompany me for late morning drinks?"

"I'd love to..." As though he could say no to the expectant, hopeful look on Francis' face...

"Marvellous! There is a lounge nearby that doesn't have too bad a liquor collection," Francis mused, one hand coming up to stroke his stubble in consideration. "And then at night there is a wonderful cabaret show. Lovely singers, each and every one of them."

"I-I don't think I'd be able to see the show since we're not allowed off the base at night, but I wouldn't mind having a drink right now."

"You are staying at a base? I was wondering about your accommodations... What a pity. You always seemed to enjoy the performances in Paris." Francis twisted his lips to the side, looking very much disappointed before waving a hand dismissively. "But let us go out for the drinks, and you can tell me all about your strict little base once we are seated and with drink."

"That doesn't sound bad at all. After you, you know the way."

Inching closer to Francis, just enough for their elbows to brush together innocuously with each step, Matthew tucked the stray locks off his face and gazed at the other's clean profile. A strong jaw, straight nose, lovely eyelashes... It felt as though he hadn't been able to stop thinking about Francis since stumbling upon him by their twist of fate, although he found himself thinking of more than just his bewildering good looks.

The distance between them had left room for growth and experience during their time apart. Already several things had changed, from the innocent adoration he had once felt toward Francis, to the infatuation he simply couldn't fight. He had also changed in different ways: while Francis remained the charming, seductive man he had always been, Matthew himself had morphed from a shy adolescent stumbling through the process of puberty to a shy man stumbling through the process of adulthood.

But regardless of the change and regardless of the growth, Francis remained the intimate person he had always been – which was perhaps what drew Matthew toward him the most.

"You're awfully quiet, Mathieu."

When Matthew blinked, the sight of the sidewalk below his feet zoomed into his line of vision, taking him by surprise. He could have sworn he was staring at him...

"I'm sorry. I'm being rude, aren't I?"

"Do not be sorry, you were simply lost in thought." Francis casually looped his arm around Matthew's shoulder and winked surreptitiously. "We are just friends trying to keep warm, yes?"

"We're only friends? Oh _darling_, I could have sworn we were more." Francis must have missed the impish sarcasm lacing Matthew's voice: almost immediately, the mischievous light was extinguished from his eyes and replaced by a passionate smoulder.

"We can be so much more than just friends, Matthew. I'm simply waiting for you to be ready."

The intimacy in the simple words sent a cold shiver down Matthew's spine. Francis wanted him. Francis was waiting for him. It was everything he wanted, but it was too fast and too soon, and yet he was gazing at him expectantly with that same intensity, sparking a desire in Matthew's veins he didn't know could exist. Everything was a large, messy, _tempting_ blur, tangled and confused... But it was just far too soon, far too much to wrap his head around. And he was only stationed in London for two weeks, he couldn't string Francis along _again_...

With much regret and self-loathing, Matthew looked toward the ground and shook his head slowly.

"I was just joking, Francis. I really shouldn't have been, it was a joke in bad taste. I'm sorry."

Matthew could pinpoint the exact moment Francis made the connection– his expression of hurt and disappointment couldn't be disguised by nonchalance.

"I see... In that case, forget what I just said. The lounge is up ahead, Mathieu."

"Francis, I was joking, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't like t-to become more than just friends sometime. I mean that."

What was he thinking... The words came tumbling past his lips before Matthew could even consider what he was saying. But he must have said the right thing, because moments later he found himself enveloped in Francis' warm embrace. The pleated texture of Francis' winter coat brushed pleasantly against his cheek and the scent of fresh lilacs invaded his nostrils wonderfully.

"We can start again. It will be different this time, and it will work."

Nodding against Francis' chest and secretly indulging in the heat his body gave off, Matthew distanced himself away enough to speak and walk.

"It will. The past doesn't matter anymore... So, uh, how about those drinks? Do you think they have any tea? I'm so cold..."

"Mathieu. You are in London, of course they have tea. They have more tea than they do water, these crazy Englishman."

From there, the conversation erupted. It burbled and flowed beautifully, as though the years of silent pain no longer existed, and their awkward tension simply vanished. Matthew found himself laughing in response to Francis' witty comments, and in turn found Francis stealing looks of adoration each time he offered his own shy commentary. All was as it used to be before the great schism, and Matthew almost regretted arriving at the pub, where their voices had to be lowered and stolen glances much more furtive.

The seats beside the counter were conveniently empty. Francis was quick to lead Matthew toward them, shooing away rivals to the seats and drumming his fingers onto the polished counter to capture the bartender's attention. The bartender wiping down the glasses behind the counter looked unexpectedly dainty, petite and fragile. He certainly didn't appear to be strong enough to manage a cabaret lounge, but then again, people had often said Matthew didn't look strong enough to lead an infantry division.

The look directed their way was positively murderous, and Matthew pinched Francis beneath the counter to keep him from drumming his fingers. Francis was entirely oblivious, and he instantly turned what he believed to be a charming smile the bartender's way.

"Do you have any French wine? I know we are in tough times, but there is no reason to suffer through a bottle of English grape juice!"

With a mock shudder that may have very well been genuine, Francis flashed a beckoning, flirtatious smile...despite what he had said earlier during their walk to the lounge. Matthew felt the first unruly stirrings of jealously in his stomach, because there went Francis with his flirting yet again. But much to his surprise, the bartender remained impassive, perhaps even colder than before.

"I shouldn't bother serving you after that. But you've caught me in a charitable mood, and your friend here seems to know how to keep quiet. To answer your question, I have a bottle of Bordeaux in the cellar."

Francis looked just as surprised by the reaction as Matthew felt, and he dramatically clapped a hand to his chest to mask his shock. "Oh, my bushy-browed friend, how you injure me so! Here I was, trying to start a conversation on the finery of wine, but yet you dismiss me. However, I will resign. Two glasses of Bordeaux, sil vous plait. I hope it was a good year." Francis sniffed haughtily, and despite his affinity toward the blond, Matthew found himself snorting quietly. His dramatic glare would never disappear, war be damned.

"Could I... Would you happen to have tea?"

The Briton turned a brilliantly emerald gaze Matthew's way. Those eyes were a beautiful colour... But they held so much pain and grief that Matthew could nearly feel it from one look alone. He couldn't possibly begin to imagine the pain he must have suffered through to make him so bitter... The intensity in those verdant eyes was nearly enough to draw attention away from his large eyebrows. But not quite.

A small, rebellious smile managed its way onto the Englishman's face, and he delivered a slight sneer in Francis' direction.

"Two glasses of wine for you, frog? Someone certainly needs to get a grip." Francis appeared entirely bewildered by the sudden hint of spirit, but before he could retort, the blond already had his back turned and was marching toward the cellar.

"Some people are _so_ rude these days."

Matthew laughed openly, which only made the pout Francis wore more prominent.

"It is true, Mathieu!"

"Well, to be fair you did insult his country's wine..."

"Only because English wine is nothing more than watered down grape juice." Smug was the smirk Francis wore. "Everybody knows the English have no taste, darling."

"Oh hush, Francis. That's not very nice."

"Truth is not always n–"

"Here are your drinks. Oh, and feel free to leave the second you finish," the Briton spat without warning, surprising Matthew and Francis with both his quick return and verbal explosion. The angry outburst had been so out of place, entirely unprecedented, and it seemed as though every person in the establishment had heard. The elvish blond spun on his heel without another word, throwing back a dirty glare and running up a set of stairs Matthew hadn't even noticed. He was gone just as suddenly as he had appeared, and from their position at the counter, his loud sobs were audible.

"Do not take it to heart. He is suffering, just as everyone else is." Francis' voice quietly stated the truth, lowly enough to keep the blond from hearing upstairs. "It is clear he is not coping well with his loss."

"I suppose you're right. It's just a bit surprising all the same, and it's never any easier to see someone so broken."

"Just let the fact that you will never be broken comfort you, Mathieu," Francis murmured, his hand entangling with Matthew's beneath the countertop. "You will never feel such pain from my behalf and that is a solemn vow."

"That's a pretty big promise to make, isn't it?" Matthew lifted the cup of tea to his lips, refusing to meet Francis' earnest gaze or respond to the subtle strokes on his palm. "I mean, I'm not doubting you of course, but this is war. You can hurt me without even thinking about it."

A spasm of pain crossed Francis' expression and he released Matthew's hand. "That is very blunt."

"It's very true."

"That it is." He took a sip of the red Bordeaux, tracing the rim of his glass absently. "I suppose that I can say the same about you. Perhaps it is best for promises to not be made."

"Maybe. But you would promise again, wouldn't you?"

Francis laughed quietly. "Yes, I would. You know me so well, Mathieu."

_Only because I like you, like you _so_ much_. "I guess I do, François."

Francis inhaled sharply, turning an unfathomable expression Matthew's way. "It has been a long time since you have called me that."

Matthew cracked a nervous grin and tugged on the errant curl that always hovered above his brow. "Maybe it's time for me to start again? You still call me Mathieu, not Mattie or Matt like Alfred, so I thought I could call you that again..."

"There is nothing I like more than hearing you say my name like that. Absolutely nothing." Francis reached out to lightly touch the curve of Matthew's cheek with his fingertips, stopping just short of actually touching the flesh. He snatched his hand back quickly and placed it on his knee. "You mentioned Alfred. How is he?"

"In that case, I'll start using it more often, François." Francis gave a smitten look, but Matthew was already past the topic and peering down at his cup with crumpled eyebrows. "I haven't heard from Al in a long time. He signed up to be a pilot the second he learnt about the war, spent a few months going through the training process, and finally went overseas. The last I heard from him was about eight months ago when he arrived to a base in London. I haven't heard from him since, and he's not here. I.. I-I'm really scared of getting one of the telegrams. We haven't talked face to face in ages, living in different countries and all, but he's still my brother. He's an idiot for trying to be a hero all the time."

"Aren't you trying to be a hero by fighting in this war too?"

Matthew blinked twice. He had never thought about it that way. Slowly, he shook his head. "No. I'm not trying to be a hero. I'm just trying to do the right thing, and maybe for once I'll be remembered for something."

"There need to be more people like you in the world, darling. You see, there are the gorgeous women, the handsome men–" Matthew arched a brow. "–But there are very few people with such genuine kindness _and_ looks. It makes you special."

"I-I wouldn't know about special, but..." Matthew's lips twitched and Francis immediately caught the tiny gesture.

"You know are special, you little crêpe, just smile already."

His smile finally broke through and he bit down on his lower lip to keep from laughing. "Be quiet. I'm entitled to a little self-pride too, you know."

"You are entitled to more than just a little self-pride Mathieu. Very few people can do what you do, and even less can do it while remaining the person they had always been. You have not changed despite what war has made you do, darling, and you deserve much more than what you give yourself."

Matthew felt colour flood into his cheeks and a chill run down his spine. "I haven't done anything extraordinary though... I don't really command anybody, since the Generals and Colonels are the ones who usually do that, so I help just make decisions for the battalions from time to time. Being called a Lieutenant is really more of a title for me than anything else. I just belong to my infantry division and fight like everybody else. There are people who do much more than what I do, and they're better people."

"Darling, that is more than what some people do in their lifetime. You are out there fighting for others, being a good leader and soldier, and it is a selfless task. I don't care about the others. You are my wartime hero."

"Really Francis, you flatter me... But thank you." Matthew chanced a look around the empty room and quickly pecked Francis' cheek, blushing hotly as he did so. "If that's not inspiring, I don't know what is."

"Perhaps one of Churchill's speeches. They are magnificent. And do you want to know what I don't know? Why the word Colonel is pronounced the way it is." Francis knit his eyebrows together, looking the image of confusion. "It is a stupid pronunciation."

"Oh, that's an easy one. It's pronounced that way because until around the mid-sixteen hundreds people would use the word Coronel. We just carried on the tradition of how it sounds."

"I am at a loss for words. I certainly did not know that. But I still think it is rather silly."

"I think so too. I don't like saying the word, so I avoid the Colonels on base."

There was a brief, sweet pause in the conversation, one Matthew thought to be comfortable, where he sipped his tea and Francis his wine. But Francis must have felt the silence to be uncomfortable, because after only a moment of it he cleared his throat and tapped a fingernail on the aged wood of the counter.

"I suppose a bit more has changed than what I had thought. I remember everything about you. I remember the ungodly number of crêpes you would eat throughout the day, the way your hair looked in the morning, and even the adorable pyjamas you would wear to bed. I remember what makes you laugh and how listening to Guy Lombardo makes you cry tears of joy. But I do not know what to say around you anymore, or perhaps around anybody. I say what I think will sound right, but then it is twisted and becomes ugly. This has never happened to me before," Francis admitted, knitting his eyebrows together and looking very much upset. "I simply don't know what to say, to you or to anybody."

Matthew blinked in complete surprise, nearly spilling cold tea on himself. "But nothing you said has been wrong or ugly. You speak just as poetically as you used to, we just... I guess neither of us know how to carry a conversation anymore. War does that to people, not that I ever really knew how to talk. But you don't have to say anything when you don't want to. You can be like me and be quiet." He cupped Francis' cheek with a gloved hand and smiled warmly, dismissing the possibility that he could be being watched by the sparse, nearly nonexistent lounge patrons. "You're an artist and a philosopher at heart, so you will always know what to say. And if you don't, you can always do something instead of saying it."

The confidence was slow to build in Francis' eyes, but much like a sunrise, the process was breathtaking. Coupled with the rippling light of the fireplace behind him, Francis stood out in the depressive little lounge. Little did Matthew know that Francis was thinking the same of him that very moment.

"Perhaps... Perhaps I could paint you? I may have lost my touch because I haven't painted for several years, but what else is worth painting in this ugly world? Please Mathieu, you must let me paint you."

"I-I'm not worth painting, I really don't think–"

"Mathieu...!"

Francis began to whine, actually having the audacity to push out a petulant lower lip and draw his eyebrows together piteously. "This is the first time since the start of the war that I have had the inspiration to paint. It will be cruel of you to deny me this!"

"Stiff upper lip, François." Snickering quietly, Matthew stood and smoothed over his uniform. If the emerald-eyed bartender were to return, he wouldn't be happy to find them still there. "I think we should leave."

"Where do you want to go?" With unfair grace, Francis stood and made to move toward the exit. "Do you have to return to the base anytime soon?"

"I just have to be on base by nightfall. Is there any place _you_ would like to go? I haven't been here in ages, so I don't know where...?"

The freezing air was quick to bite at their faces, turning Matthew's pert nose an unbecoming shade of cherry. Francis seemed unfazed by the cold, his icy blue eyes remote and unfocused as he thought of something. Just when Matthew's cheeks were turning blue and teeth at risk of clicking right off, he turned and smiled brightly. "I know where we can go. It will be warm if we bring a blanket, and I can assure you that you will enjoy the sight."

"W-Where will we get the b-blanket?"

"We can make a quick run to my little studio here in London. It is not nearly as luxurious as the one I had in Paris," Francis warned, pronouncing the name of the city like a true Parisian. "But it is not too bad considering how the country is."

"S-Sounds great, F-Francis." Despite his years in Canada, he had become accustomed to the warmth of Italy and France while serving on operations, and the cold was absolutely brutal. "But one q-question... H-How will I survive the walk to y-your apartment?"

"I will embrace away the cold," Francis said simply, doing as he stated and pulling Matthew into his warm arms. Although minimal, the added heat made a difference and Matthew buried his nose into his collar, feeling Francis' chest rumble and vibrate beneath his chin as he laughed.

"For someone so afraid of holding hands earlier, you are certainly leaping into my open arms easily."

"I'm cold, leave me alone."

"I will not take those words for their literal meaning, because then you will become sick. Don't cling so tightly darling, we could both fall. Be careful, the first step is here..."

With Francis guiding him each step of the way and holding him tenderly, they made their way over paved cobblestones and down the twisting streets of London. Francis told him stories of his exploits as a former Maquis leader and of his near capture by the Gestapo while in the French countryside. In turn, Matthew recounted his memories of living in Berlin just before the outbreak of the war and making runs into Holland. He told him of Ned, the brave Dutchman he had met in Amsterdam, and of his friend Mike, another Lieutenant in his division. By the time they arrived to Francis' small studio, hidden smack in the centre of an old antique store and clock shop, there was nothing the other didn't know. And despite no longer being used to acting or feeling so familiar around someone, Matthew would enjoy the sentiment while it lasted very, very much.

* * *

_To be continued..._

* * *

_Mike – Newfoundland_


	3. Chapter 3

_Francis' slender fingers gently sifted through strands of Matthew's hair, fingering his curls fondly. How he loved those golden curls, always tousled and soft to the touch... "So what are your future plans, darling? What do you wish to have in a couple of years?"_

_Almost immediately, Matthew's face coloured and his eyes took on a dreamy sheen. "I just want a family. Three kids, a husband, and a home in Canada." Matthew turned that lovely gaze his way and shifted slightly, looking distinctly uncomfortable and defiant. "I know I'm supposed to want other things, like a lumberjack mill or something, but I want the cozy home life. I want two little boys and a little girl, and a husband that I'll love forever."_

_"No darling, that's not ridiculous. That's the most beautiful thing I have ever heard."_

_Francis could see the sight of Matthew with his children, tiny cherubs that fell just below his knee and demanded his attention. And although Francis had always joked among friends about never settling down, never marrying or starting a family, there was nothing Francis wanted to do more with Matthew than just that precisely._

.

Watching Matthew's light eyelashes flutter shut as he took a sip from the wine bottle was mesmerising. Francis could see the shy brush of his pink tongue against the rim of the bottle, the pearly enamel of his teeth, even the way the soft curve of his jaw moved when he swallowed. The fine details of his ethereally beautiful face just had to be paid attention to; it naturally drew Francis' attention away from everything in their surroundings. Nothing caught his eye as much as Matthew did, simply because everything paled in comparison to the Canadian's allure.

Matthew's large, radiant eyes flickered up to him and Francis lost himself in the indigo pools of light. Positively everything about Matthew sparkled, he marvelled, and everything about the boy radiated the aura of wholesome honesty. He had the rare, clean kind of beauty that Francis would very nearly never stumble upon, and everything about the boy drove him mad.

"Francis, you're staring," Matthew murmured shyly, lowering those lovely eyes of his. His soft lower lip was caught between his teeth, and Francis felt warmth shoot through his body in an exciting rush.

"How could I not stare at someone as absolutely ravishing as yourself?" He tried to flatter, he really did, and he was rewarded when Matthew's thin cheeks flooded with healthy colour.

But then he ruined the charmed illusion by snickering quietly. "Ravishing? Really, darling?"

"Do not make fun of me, little lumberjack! I was trying to seduce you with my words." Francis wound his arms loosely around Matthew's brittle waist and buried his nose into perfumed golden tresses. "I forgot just how big of a tease you are, mon cher."

"I'm not the t-tease."

Sitting hand in hand with the beautiful boy, Francis simply shook his head and hid a smile to himself. Matthew was like a doe in many ways – shy, docile and yet teasing with its presence. The precious Canadian didn't seem to realise that everything about him drove Francis mad, from his way of ducking beneath his blond curls to the way he would lower and raise his gaze from beneath a dark fringe of eyelashes.

And yet despite his mild appearance and polite mannerisms, Francis knew that Matthew wasn't always as complaisant as he appeared to be, and he knew of the snarky, smug facet to the Canadian's personality: his dry comments, observing eye and keen intuition. Matthew was a thrilling man of quiet statements and ardent arguments, and his firmly set opinions on their broad range of topics never failed to bring Francis to a new perspective.

"So, François." Matthew's nimble fingers, fingers that had once played him the French Suits of Bach, curled around his forearm in a tender grip. "What did you do in France during the years that I was gone?"

"Well, my dear, after mourning your loss for quite some time, I returned to my artwork. I created a few masterpieces that rivalled that of Claude Monet."

He laughed, a short, bubbly laugh filled with life, and shook his head from side to side. His lips were pursed in mock disapproval, and his lit eyes sparkled. "Always so vain, Francis. It'll come back to bit you in the rear someday."

"Darling, you will bring misfortune upon me!" Francis pressed a kiss to Matthew's temple and reached for the bottle of aged wine he had brought along with them. He had been saving the bottle for a special occasion, and there was no occasion more special than a cold autumn evening spent sharing a blanket with his darling Canadian lieutenant.

"Tell me again, why did you leave France?"

"You know why, darling. I simply couldn't take being part of the Maquis anymore."

"I know, sorry, but what was the final straw? What made you decide to leave?"

"For me, the final straw was watching _mon ami_ Henri die. That, and being caught by a German while delivering a message. I had to kill a man to survive, and it was the worst feeling in the world to watch the light go from his eyes." Francis shook his head slowly, his chin brushing against the top of Matthew's head. _The German's eyes dimmed, losing their gleam of both hatred and fear_. "He may have been a monster, or he may have been a scared soldier. Either way, he didn't deserve to die and it is one of my biggest regrets. And by joining the Intelligence, I would never be at risk like that again, but yet I would have a purpose and be of help to our soldiers."

"I could be considered a monster," Matthew pointed out softly, closing his eyes and leaning against him for support. Although the Canadian was taller by four glorious centimetres, he still moulded perfectly against the Frenchman's chest. It was one of the things he had always loved, the easy way their bodies melded together as though created just for the other. There had once been a time when he believed that, and being the foolishly idealistic romantic that he was, he still believed that. "I've killed hundreds of people, maybe even thousands."

"No darling, stop that." Francis couldn't keep himself from scolding, drawing back slightly and ignoring Matthew's whine of dismay. "You are not a monster. You are saving lives at the needed expense of others, which is heroic." Matthew tilted his face to the side and scowled the impossible little frown he always wore. It was the precious expression of a child attempting to be a man, and Francis gently cupped a pretty cheek in the palm of his hand. "Would you like for me to sing to you as I used to?"

"Yes. Please sing to me."

"I will sing a song that reminds me of you. Do you know what I always think of when I remember our old days together? I always think of the autumn leaves, darling. They started falling right after you left me."

_Francis stood by the window yet again, doing nothing but staring out at the world from within the confines of his own home. It was there that he was safe from heartache and loss, and it was there that he had kept himself for the past several weeks. The inklings of red and gold that dusted the Parisian ground held his attention the most – they teased him with their bold colours, fluttering by his window and carrying in the gentle breezes. It was all that he had seen for days on end, and it was all that he would see for several days more._

He would always think of the autumn leaves when he thought of that one splendid year several years ago. Those streaks of red and gold had haunted him during the days he spent at the window when he mourned, taunting him as they drifted by in their coloured glory.

"I always thought of warm tea and old books. Poetry, pastries, evening cabaret... We always shared those things at our café." Francis shared in the reminiscing smile Matthew wore, fondly recalling those afternoons spent in the luxurious silence of their own company.

"We did, darling. We shared so much, from our love of Tolstoy to our political dissent. But you can never love someone as much as you can miss them, and because I missed you for so long, I will always think of the red and gold that drifted by my window while I waited in my depression.

"_C'est une chanson_

_Qui nous resemble_

_To tu m'aimais_

_Et je t'aimais_..."

Singing the song he had composed and rewritten several times during his period of strife was oddly completing, filling him with the sensation of having completed something that should have been finished several years ago.

"_Nous vivions tous_

_Les deux ensemble_

_Toi qui m'aimais_

_Moi qui t'aimais_..."

There was something bittersweet about singing the song he had created for Matthew right in front of him; it was he who had broken his heart that autumn several years ago, yet he was there to fix it and fill him with the hope that perhaps things could be as they once were...perhaps even better.

"_Mais la vie sépare_

_Ceux qui s'aiment_

_Tout doucement_

_Sans faire de bruit_

_Et la mer efface sur le sable_

_Le pas des amants désunis_."

.

_It's a song_

_That we resemble_

_You, you loved me_

_And I loved you_

The low, husky timbre of Francis voice sent a body wracking shiver down Matthew's spine. He had forgotten just how much of a thrill Francis' singing was, the way it brought colour to his cheeks from excitement and made him want to rupture with a delighted grin.

_We lived together_

_Both of us_

_You who loved me_

_I who loved you_

But although it did made his veins feel as though they were burning with molten lava, there was something oddly sorrowful about the song Francis was singing. It made him want to lie down and mourn, or to clutch the Frenchman close and refuse to let go. The lament in his tone was like nothing he had ever heard before, and when he paused to understand what was being sang to him, tears collected at his lashes.

_But life separated_

_Those who loved_

_Very gently_

_Without making a sound_

_And the sea erased under the sand_

_The footprints of the separated lovers_

"That's so sad..."

It was only sad because he knew it could very well happen to him – he could disappear without a trace, and whatever footsteps he may have left behind would vanish beneath a wave. Matthew didn't even stop to recognise that the song spoke of heartbreak and goodbyes; to him it spoke of the finality of life itself. It was a terrifying prospect, being placed in a state of indefinite invisibility and becoming nothing more than a long-forgotten corpse in the ground, and Matthew couldn't keep the quiver from his voice when he was struck by the sudden notion. "Promise me that you won't let me disappear."

"Of course I won't let you disappear, where would you go?" Matthew could hear the confusion in Francis' tone, knew that he wasn't making sense with his sudden demands, but he didn't apologise. He was right to be afraid, because he could very well die and never be heard from again. The quiet voice of reason in the back of his mind shouted for him to rationalise and realise his reaction wasn't what it needed to be, but that voice was drowned out by the paranoia that years of war had instilled into him. An ominous coil formed in the pit of his stomach, clenching and unfurling with every treacherous thought flickering through Matthew's mind.

_I could die._

_I'll just disappear._

_It'll be like I never existed._

He wanted to sit down and possibly cry out his sudden fear. Death had always seemed inevitable with his position in the war, but he had never stopped to think about the world moving on past his death. He had taken for granted his ephemeral existence, hadn't taken into perspective the fact that that one day he would be nothing but another body in the ground, another human to be classified as a man of his era – he would be nameless, unrecognised, forgotten. The realisation was hitting hard, very much like an angry blow to the abdomen, and Matthew abruptly needed to be alone, needed time to curl in on himself atop his bunk at the base, or better yet, back in his native Canada.

But he knew that he couldn't simply leave Francis behind without an explanation – and his dawning realisations were not subject matter he wanted to discuss. So, forcing a grateful smile, Matthew leant in and brushed his lips over Francis' cheekbone. "Thank you for singing to me. It was sad and beautiful."

"Darling, if you reward me a bit more each time, I do believe I would serenade you!" Slyly, Francis' hand crept lower down his back, although blue eyes studied his face inquisitively. "But is something the matter?"

"No, everything is fine. I think I just had one sip of wine too many." Matthew offered what he hoped to be a reassuring smile, although he was sure that his smile had more closely resembled a puckered grimace.

"Alright darling, if you do insist." Although uncertainty flickered through Francis' gaze, he didn't ask any questions, and for that Matthew was grateful. Francis sometimes passed the boundaries of personal space and intruded into conversations unknowingly, but Frenchman knew when not to speak.

.

"Darling... Did I say something that upset you? You have been very quiet for a long while now."

Francis' brow was knit with concern for his morose partner. He had been silent since claiming that they should walk beneath the old wooden bridge, and when Matthew was upset, he would suppress his turmoil until he reached the point of no return. Francis very dearly wanted to avoid that.

"No, Francis. "Everything has been great, really." Matthew's soft voice barely registered, and it sounded forlorn. He attempted to smile a smile that didn't come near to reaching his eyes, and something in Francis' chest dropped. All at once, the only thing he wanted to do was fix the sadness in those violet eyes he loved so much.

"Come here, darling. I have come to the realisation that not everything in the city is dead, an that perhaps there is something we could find in these small woods."

Filled with misgiving, wary trepidation, and a sudden adventurous exploit, Francis gave a slight tug on the hand in his hold and wandered toward the deadening thicket beside the bridge they sat beneath. The trees were shedding their autumnal leaves of red and gold, and Francis made a gran show of kicking them up into the air. Intrigue began to slowly spark in Mathews eyes, and before Francis knew it, he was kicking at the leaves on the ground too.

"We must look utterly mad!"

"To whom; the bugs in the soil? There's nobody here!"

Francis laughed openly, feeling his pulse quicken in excitement. It had been years since he ha last felt so airy and at peace, because although adrenaline had pounded through his system during his years as a Maquis leader, nothing could compare to the feeling of being free to laugh without consequence.

Not a single leaf went without feeling the brunt of their kicks, and by the time they collapsed onto the ground in a tired heap, they both wore the matching grins of men well-satisfied.

"That was really, really fun," Matthew admitted breathlessly, his thin cheeks flushed crimson and forehead glistening with droplets of dewy perspiration. He looked happy again, and that was all Francis had wanted to see.

"I am glad you enjoyed it, Mathieu. Although we must have looked _utterly mad_, non?"

"Oh hush, you know we would have looked insane to anybody if they were to have seen us." He rolled over against Francis' chest and draped a delicate, uninjured hand atop it. "But believe me when I say I would do it again in a heartbeat."

Francis felt the soft curve of Matthew cheek protruding into his arm, and he smiled for the umpteenth time that day. "I would too, darling. I'd forsake my reputation as a sane man if it were the cost of making you happy." He pressed a kiss to the Canadian's forehead and waved a finger in warning. "I do, however, have my boundaries, _cœur_."

"Of course you do, Francis."

Matthew's voice was thick with sleepiness, and when Francis lifted his gaze to the sky, the darker glow of twilight greeted him.

"It is time for you to return to your strict little base," he pointed out quietly, touching Matthew's stray curl for the last time that night.

The lieutenant stirred and sat up slowly. Golden locks, stained with dirt and sweat, hung over his face, but Francis could see that he didn't want to leave. He didn't want Matthew to leave either.

"Meet me tomorrow in front of the pub at noon." Matthew stood quickly once he realised the darkness was ascending, and he cast a remorseful glance down at Francis. "I don't want to leave, François... Will you meet me tomorrow?"

"Of course, darling. I will be there bright and early."

Before Matthew could turn and run back to his military base, Francis stood and pulled him close.

"_Je t'adore, tresore_," he whispered, closing his eyes. There was the brief sensation of warmth against his lips and the sound of rustling leaves underfoot, and when he opened his eyes again, Matthew was gone.

.

_May, 1936_

_"So, how do you know when you're in love?"_

_"That, Gilbert, is easy. You know you are in love when you are willing to do anything for that person, when you are willing to put everything on the line to make them smile. It is when you are willing to die for them, because life without that person wouldn't be a life at all. And most importantly, it is feeling like the most lucky man alive when in their presence." _

"_And, Antonio, do not forget this: love comes in many stages. There is infatuation and adoration, and there is lust and love. Sometimes it could even start as hatred and develop into love, because both are feelings of passion and there is a very fine line that separates them. And you know it is true love if it survives through all of those things."_

* * *

_Hi guys, quick little author's note! While I want to thank everyone who has reviewed my work up to current standing (Wow, thank you so, so much!), I just wanted to encourage a little bit of feedback. Although the encouraging remarks are really the best, I'm hoping that perhaps I can receive some opinion and critique on things such as dialogue, writing style, interactions, etc. This is, after all, my first published work, and through your opinions I can grow and become a better writer. So that being said, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the little peek at Francis' perspective, and hopefully I've persuaded you to leave a review :-)_

* * *

_**tresore – treasure_


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